


F í l i

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Durincest, M/M, You get the idea, and I'm being too liberal with tags again, but everything's durincest to me so, it's also extremely weird, sorry - Freeform, well it's barely even there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You only have tiny hands, and yet you hold the whole world in your wee little grasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	F í l i

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this is weird. The more I look at it, the less I'm able to tell what this is supposed to be. I'm... sorry?  
> It's Fíli's point of view - just in case, you know.

Close your eyes.

It’s like before you were born, isn’t it? When you die.  
It’s nothing and everything, darkness behind your eyelids, light sizzling through your bones, welding old and new together.  
  


Here, close your eyes.

It’s right before you’re born.

 

Ah, now  _that_ 's some light.

-

You cry out loud - that’s how you left this world last time, that’s how you enter it again, barging in despite yourself, strong and awake and full of breath in your stubborn miniature lungs. There. You have a new voice, new strenght, new  _power_  in your fragile throat - you can scream and they’ll listen, now.  _Now_ , the worst is behind you.

-  
  
You only have tiny hands, and yet you hold the whole world in your wee little grasp. But how would you know? You’re fresh life and blood pumped anew in an ancient heart - you wail and it’s not too bad, not when your head is cradled in the crook of her arm just so.

You’re king, and this is your throne, her lullabies your luxury.  
  
-

You won’t remember her first smile to you, moved, trembling,  _happy_ , but you will carry it with you with every flutter of your heart.  
  
-

She  _calls_  you, a soft crooning sound, settling upon your forehead with a feather-light kiss. You have a name once again, then.  
It’s strange - it soothes an ache in your heart that was never supposed to be there, it erases the tear tracks on your rosy cheeks, filling the empty spaces and lonely crevices in you with warmth and milk.

It’s strange. A good kind of strange.

-

You sleep. You eat. You  _coo_. You keep them up at night, you babble cheerful streams of chitchat to your stuffed toy, you chew on your blanket, on your own squishy fist. You grow into your podgy baby self, eager legs and a waddling little bum still wrapped up in a colourful nappy.

They say you’re cute. You don’t really understand - although they’re smiling; _it’s always good when they’re smiling, isn’t it_  - but you feel- you still feel like there’s something missing.  
Maybe you can’t crawl far enough to find it yet.  
  
-

They call it a ball - oh, you  _light up_  with excitement - and they want you to ‘say it’. You try to comply (after all, you’ve managed so well with  _maama_  and _da-da_  in the last few weeks), grabbing it with your small hands and greeting it with a half-toothed smile and a curious,  _Bo?_

Da-da seems happy, and already on about how good you will be with one of these when you grow up - what kind of nonsense is that, anyway? - but nah, you don’t like it. So you try again, lips pursed and golden curls bouncing astray on your temples, and then  _Baw!_ , you say, solemn like a christening, waiting for Baw to answer your call.  
  
Well, it doesn’t, but it shines friendly and pretty in its mix of yellow and orange splotches and you giggle,  _Baw! Baw! Baaaw!_ , and while Maama smooches the top of your head like princesses do, Da-da - how come you never realized how lucky you are to have one, these days? - smiles even wider, pride sparkling in his eyes.

_Tsk_. You little perfectionist, you.  
  
-

Your first steps are wobbly, of course, but there are hands, there are  _always_ safe hands and long arms outstretched to keep you from tumbling headfirst onto the floor.  
  
You fall anyway - it’s a good job the diaper’s still there when you flop on your backside, really, it makes the landing a bit smoother, despite the stain spreading like wildfire on your toddler honour.

So you get back up.

How _… How many times were you told to?_

Oh.  _Not yet?_  Not  _here_.

But it’s bubbling in the back of your mind, and you do, and you squeal in delight when your head gets up so high above the linoleum.

Aah, it tastes like freedom. You can do  _things_  now! You can go and find what you need to make your young life complete.

… well, at least the Baw lying in the corner doesn’t look that far away anymore.

-

It’s a long time before you’re tasting your first ice-cream - plain vanilla, cool and sweet, and oh infinitely better than mashed apples.

Maama reckons the two of you could share; you chuckle in agreement, clapping your hands - you remember this.  
It’s nice, it’s natural. It’s _instinctive._  It sings loud and yearning deep in your heart, engraved in there like the DNA branded on the flow in your veins. It’s like a good memory.  
Things never taste the same when they’re just  _mine_  anyway.

_Ours_ , ours used to be your favourite word, now didn’t it? Your second favourite.  
The first one was a name; short, easy, a familiar feeling with no sound to it yet.

But that can wait another while.  
  
-

Things keep a linear pattern, at least.

Because you know it, you can feel it, like an old and dusty clue left there by some kind soul to show you the way, and yes -  _five years_ , it took five years for you to find each other last time.  
You’re glad fate is following the nice side of your old path.

And you  _know_ , you  _know_  as soon as you lay your eyes on him.

You can see it with impossible clarity, like an answer suddenly plastered right next to your question mark.

He’s the name. Your favourite name, the first word nestling on the tip of your tongue ever since  _forever_.

 

You  _will_  remember his first smile to you - and the bright light washing over the school’s courtyard, the pure joy painted in vibrant flecks of hazel and sunshine in his eyes, and the big blueberry-purple stain on his t-shirt. And you will carry it forever in your heart, like a promise, like a picture in your wallet, like the time you smiled right back at him.  
  


These things will stay, keep your hands warm when he’s not around to hold them.

The rest - centuries-old memories, somebody else’s regrets, the weight of expectations flung at you like discarded clothes - you can forget, now. You don’t need that anymore.


End file.
